


Target Fixation

by kaasknot



Series: Clone Wars Kink fills [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clonecest, Cunnilingus, Felching, Forced Out of the Closet, Gender Issues, Group Sex, Intersex Character, Multi, Social bonding through sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: Match just wants to integrate into his new squad with a minimum of crisis, but he's got a secret. The kind of secret that gets you disappeared into Kaminoan labs. Things are different with the Jedi, but how different? And can he trust his squad?
Series: Clone Wars Kink fills [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758301
Comments: 5
Kudos: 139





	Target Fixation

Match kept his eyes fixed on his blaster and not the bodies of his brothers as they horsed around the barracks. They weren't really _his_ brothers; _his_ brothers had died in Geonosis II. These were their replacements. He was to establish a rapport with them as expediently as possible, to ensure the smooth running of the Grand Army of the Republic.

That's what the regs manual said, anyway. Match had his doubts. His new squad wasn't keen on “establishing a rapport” with him, and he couldn't blame them; CT-2281, “Match,” was _different_.

He hid it well enough. That he'd survived to deployment said all anyone needed to know about how well he hid himself. He hadn't been able to do it without his squad, though—and now his squad was dead.

He fought the tremble in his hands as he field-stripped his blaster. Around him, his new squad were all in contact with each other in some way—Hax had his arm over Juro’s shoulders as he told a joke to Sting and Uli, who had their legs tangled together on Juro’s bunk; Glitch and Hype were wrapped around each other, engaged in a little nonregulation sparring; Char, Leaper, and Pitch were jumbled in a pile, sleeping. Only Match sat out. Only Match still wore his armor during barracks downtime, and showered after lights out, and refused to get off with his brothers. He distanced himself, and in return his squad kept their distance. He _knew_ it was impacting their training scores, and that it was drawing attention from the CCs, but he’d heard too many stories of defective vode disappearing into the bowels of Tipoca City’s genlabs. He'd survived by being cautious—paranoid, Deyc used to say—and he couldn't bring himself to trust brothers he'd only known for a month.

They weren't his batchers. They hadn't known him since before he could crawl. He couldn't trust how they'd react. So he kept his secret hidden, and he let their training scores drop.

“Hey, Match,” Sting called out. “Why don't you come join us? Get comfortable.”

Sting was the only one who persisted in making overtures to Match. Even Char, the squad sergeant, had given up and limited his remarks to orders and status checks.

Match shook his head.

“Take the fucking armor off, at least. You're making _me_ uncomfortable just looking at you.”

Match’s hands tightened around the barrel, pushing the cleaning rod home. He glanced to Sting. Of all of them, Sting was the best-looking. He had boiling self-confidence, and he kept his hair buzzed into fractals. It irritated him that he couldn't get Match to yield to his charm.

“Take it off, for fucksakes. You don't have anything we haven't seen before.”

Char, roused from his doze by his Jedi-like awareness of squad drama, took quick stock of the situation. “Leave him alone, Sting.”

“No,” Sting shot back petulantly. “He's been in _our_ barracks for a _month_ and he won't even treat us like allies, let alone brothers.”

“Wonder why,” Glitch muttered, twined with Hype in post-coital bliss.

“Come on,” Sting said again to Match. “Take off your armor. I dare you.”

“Just take it off,” Uli groaned. He'd flopped back on the bunk as soon as Sting had dug in his heels.

Match looked to Char.

“You don't have to. There's _no regs_ , Sting, that say someone has to take their armor off.”

“There's no regs saying a karking _cadet_ should be let out on the battlefield, yet here the fuck we are,” Sting said, sitting forward on the edge of the bunk. “The long-necks fucked up somewhere with this one, and _we’re_ left dodging the flak.”

“I'm not a cadet,” Match said. He swallowed. “I'm ten. I passed all the sims.”

Sting’s gaze refocused on Match, sharp and dangerous. “Yeah, well, you sure sound like one. Why the hell else won't you treat us like brothers? Are you scared your balls might drop?”

“Fierfek, Sting, he just lost his squad!”

“So what! _We’re_ his squad, now! And I'm sick to fuck that he won't treat us like it!” He launched off the bunk toward Match; Match threw his blaster stock at him, but Sting just batted it aside. Shouts ricocheted into a senseless cacophony; panic seared Match’s nerves. It was his worst nightmare come to life. He was as well-trained as any clone: he'd passed all his sims, he could take down an opponent twice as strong as he was if he had the advantage, but he didn't have the advantage here, and a month of impaired workouts had sapped his mass. Sting wrestled him down and tripped the magclamps over his shoulders, prying off his breastplate in a wink.

“Stop!” Match yelled, his voice going high and shrill the way he hated.

The barracks went still.

“What the fuck?” Sting stared down at his chest, flabbergasted.

Match took advantage of his distraction and knee him in the gett’se. He went down like a sack of rations.

But the damage was already done. Match sat up, tense and ready to bolt. Ready to fight for his life if he had to; ready to kill his own brothers if they pushed too far. Sting retched at his feet.

“How?” Hax asked, transfixed by the breasts distorting the front of Match’s blacks.

Match pried his breastplate out from under Sting’s body and covered himself as quickly as he could, his face burning. The bitter taste of bile coated the back of his tongue. The eyes of his squadmates were a physical weight. Silence reigned.

It was too much. “I'll be back for morning inspection,” he muttered to Char and fled the barracks.

* * *

The squad dynamic shifted overnight. The shaky equilibrium from before was shattered; now, confusion and swiftly-drawn allegiances took its place. Sting, once the darling, was now pariah, and the power vacuum threatened to tear the squad apart. And all of it centered on a single brother.

Match, who was a handful of centimeters too short. Who couldn't grow a beard. Who never seemed to fit his slightly-too-large armor. Whose muscle mass was so underweight that Char figured he had to be sick. Whose voice was too high.

Who had breasts.

Char couldn't say for certain what was going on with Match physically; he'd thought the Kaminoans would have caught all genetic abnormalities in their quality control sweeps. What good was a soldier if he couldn't keep up?

Except Match _could_ keep up. He struggled sometimes, but there were reserves in him Char had never seen in a brother before, reserves that had him lugging Leaper’s unconscious carcass twenty klicks over rough ground, until his blisters split and bled through the soles of his too-large boots. That had been a mess.

The mental image of Match’s breasts stuck in his mind. They weren't very big, maybe enough for a handful each. They should have looked out of place on a brother’s body, and in a way they still did, for the simple reason that they shouldn't have been there; but Match’s shoulders were a little too narrow, and with his breastplate off, Char had seen how his hips had flared ever-so-slightly. Char willed away his hard-on and applied himself to his pull-ups. They had maneuvers that afternoon, and he had more important things to be thinking about than how strangely _good_ Match had looked.

Two days after the incident, Sting sat across from Match in the mess. Match had always sat a little separate from the squad; Char didn't like it, but he couldn't exactly order him to sit closer. He'd figured it was grief.

Anyway, Sting had sat his tray down opposite, and the entire squad had gone tense, watching. Sting had been… different, since the incident. It wasn't just the distrust of his brothers, though Char had no doubt that was a big part of it. He thought maybe Sting had scared himself.

He said something to Match—an apology maybe, or an explanation. Match’s reply was short and terse, and Sting’s hope died a quick death. His shoulders rounded in defeat as Match got up and walked away.

The next time Char saw Sting, he'd shaved off his fractals. He didn't try to talk with Match again.

Days passed, and Char made sure no one blabbed. That had to be Match’s chief fear; the Kaminoans were merciless toward aberration, and Match was a _really_ big aberration. Until he figured out that serving beneath the Jedi was different in almost every way, that they celebrated difference to the same degree that the Kaminoans had abhorred it, then it was Char’s duty as squad sergeant to do what he could to ease his mind. He switched bunks with Uli so he was above Match; no one would be able to come up to him without Char hearing. Sting, he banished to the top bunk by the air exchanger, which was always too cold.

The first real change was the day Match came into the showers with them after training exercises. He stood uncertainly in the doorway, his towel and toiletries in hand, and the chatter faded off as though the volume dial had been turned down low. They all stared at him, even Char. It was the first time they’d seen him naked.

They’d already known he stood a full six centimeters too short, and that he had breasts; but it was something different _seeing_ him as a unified body instead of as disparate imperfections. Suddenly, he didn't seem so imperfect after all. His narrow, beardless face was soft, and his arms were soft, and his belly and legs were soft--though Char had seen him perform enough push-ups in full armor to know that “soft” was a relative term. He was slenderer than they were, except for his hips, which rounded outward to frame his few wisps of pubic hair, and… Char wasn't sure what that cleft was between his legs, only that it definitely wasn't a cock. He didn't have any gett’se, either. It looked strange, but it also looked _right_ , as though he had been formed that way on purpose, not accidentally like poor 99 back home.

“Oh, you're a _woman_!” Pitch, the squad medic, exclaimed.

Match stared at him for a moment, nonplussed, then shrugged, laconic as always.

Realization stunned Char’s mind. A _woman_. He’d seen plenty of holos of women during training, and he'd even seen Master Ti while loading up during deployment. Their Jedi was a Rodian male, however, and neither Char nor Char’s brothers, as far as he knew, had ever been close to a woman in real life. If Pitch said Match was one, then he probably was; but all Char knew was that his newest and most problematic squad member was nervous as a nerf in heat, and that Char’s cock liked the hell out of what he saw.

That second one unnerved him no small amount.

“Are you coming in, or what?” he said gruffly. “Gonna run out of water if you just stand there.”

Match slowly stepped inside, trying to keep all of them in sight at once. He dumped his towel and kit on the benches in the middle, and went to turn on the spray.

It was a quiet sort of agony, watching him wash. He kept his back to the wall, soaping up and rinsing as quickly as possible, but that just meant they all got to see it as he ran his hands over his breasts and down his stomach, and—and between his legs. Char shared a look of quiet desperation with Leaper. He turned to the wall to hide his erection. He wasn't normally in the habit of being shy about what turned him on, but every single man there was hard, even Sting, whose cheeks were red and whose eyes were downcast. It didn't seem right to force Match to see it. It wasn't his fault he hadn't grown up with their squad. It wasn't his fault he was new and fascinating.

He left a few minutes later, wrapping his towel around his hips, and the flurry of furtive masturbation that rose in his wake was almost embarrassing.

It broke the tension, though. After that display of bravery, Pitch went and had a conversation with Match, sitting next to him on his bunk. They were both in full armor; Char figured it was a comfort thing for Match. He heard something about pelvic exams and made himself as scarce as possible, but Match seemed more relaxed afterwards.

Their scores got better, at least.

* * *

Sting was lying on his bunk, trying to read the specs for the upgraded DC-15A, creatively named the DC-15B. It was an uphill battle though, because Match had the top of his blacks stripped off and hanging around his waist, as most of them did during downtime, and he was mock-sparring with Glitch.

It wasn't that he had a problem with his brothers going skins. His brothers were all fit as hell. Match was, too, for all that he was skinny; his muscle was lean and cut beneath the scant padding. It was just that. Well. He was _jiggling_ , and it was hard to concentrate on blaster specs when Sting could be looking at those swaying brown nipples, instead.

He tried, though. He tried as hard as he fucking could. He hadn't forgiven himself for violating his brother the way he had, even though it had turned out pretty well. Match had even softened a little toward him, but Char still kept a sharp eye on whatever he did, and Sting couldn't honestly blame him.

You didn't trust someone who hurt his brothers.

“Okay, okay,” Glitch said, catching Match’s arms. He sounded a little strained. “You don't have to say yes, but vod, I'm begging you: can I see what you’re packing?”

Every nerve in Sting’s body went tight. It was the single most burning question in the squad, after “where are they going to send us, next?”: What’s in Trooper Match’s pants? Pitch knew the most of all of them, but he took his oath of confidentiality seriously, the chakaar.

Match looked up at Glitch. It was the moment of truth. The sexual tension had been building in the squad ever since Match rubbed himself off in the showers, one hand braced against the wall, the other tucked between his legs. No one had been able to see what he was doing; he'd kept his thigh up, blocking the view. Sting knew he himself had a fucking shiny’s chance in hell, but even if all he got to see was what Match showed Glitch, he'd take what he could get.

If, though. It still demanded a lot of trust, for all that Match had gotten comfortable.

“You know what,” Match said slowly, looking Glitch up and down, “I think I can do that.”

From his angle Sting could only see a portion of the incredulous smile Glitch gave him, but he could see the goosebumps that prickled along Glitch’s spine, and he _definitely_ saw the way Match’s nipples stiffened. _Fuck_ , he wanted to taste them so badly. He flicked to the next page of the specs manual. He’d fucked up his chances well and good. Now he had to live with it.

Match inhaled slowly as Glitch ran his hand down Match’s belly. Glitch stepped a little to the side for a better angle, and Sting got a prime view of his hand dipping low into Match’s blacks, his fingers curling to cup the small swell of his sex.

“It's wet,” Glitch said in surprise; the semi Sting had been sporting for the past half hour made a bid for full hardness.

“That’s what happens,” Match said shakily, rocking against Glitch’s hand. Then his hips jerked forward. “Do that again!”

“What, that?” Glitch did something with his fingers, and Match almost went on his tiptoes.

“Yes! Fuck yes!”

Everyone in the barracks was watching, Sting noticed, casting furtive glances around. Hax was closest, sitting on the bunk Match was leaning against, and his expression of incredulous gratitude would have had Sting in stitches at any other time.

“That your dick?” Glitch asked, his fingers working in a steady rhythm.

“Something like that,” Match replied. He threw one hand over Glitch’s shoulders and braced the other one along the bunk. “Gets hard like one.”

“Fierfek,” Glitch breathed, and Sting wanted so badly to know what he was feeling he almost jumped down from the bunk to push him aside—but Uli, standing by the armor rack with an open can of polish, said: “How close are you, little brother?”

Match looked around at all of them and he shuddered. “Pretty close.” Glitch gave a couple more swipes of his fingers, and that was it, Match was arching up, his head thrown back and his abs in sharp relief. His hips jerked forward as he came, though it was different—his thighs spread a little more. He pressed Glitch’s hand against him as he came down, completely silent, his lip caught between his teeth.

Glitch nuzzled against his neck. “Can I see, Match?”

Match opened his eyes, and shock speared through Sting as he looked him straight in the eye. He couldn't look away, not for all the shame in the galaxy.

“Sure,” Match said. He stripped his blacks off the rest of the way, and Glitch’s fingers came away shiny and slick. Was Match’s jizz clear? The curls between his legs were damp with moisture, his cleft shiny, too, the lips of it swollen and parted, just a little. Sting looked up to Match’s face, and saw that he was still watching him. He blushed and turned back to his specs, acutely aware of how hard he was.

When he mustered the courage to turn back, Match had laid himself out on the bunk next to Hax, and Glitch was kneeling between his spread knees. Glitch’s _fucking_ head was in the way. Hax was leaning over for a better look as well, and Match looked a little nervous, but also amused.

“Where’s his dick?” Hax asked, and Glitch showed him something that made Match’s hips twitch.

“That. It's a tiny little thing.”

Match wriggled, his mask of indifference slipping to show the discomfort underneath. “Hey, you gonna eat me out, or not?”

The whole room went still.

“You can go again already?” Char asked. He had a hand pressed against his cock, visible through his blacks where it rode up the line of his hip.

Match scoffed. “Yeah.”

Sting’s mouth went dry.

“Bantha-shitting hell,” Uli breathed. He still hadn't set the can of polish down, though a wet patch was soaking through the front of his blacks.

It was Hax who made the first move. He broke the stunned awe of his brothers and bowed his head to close his mouth around one of Match’s nipples. Sting swallowed against a rush of saliva. Match arched up into it with a hiss, clutching at Hax's head; with his other hand he pushed Glitch’s face into his crotch. “If you're gonna, then do,” he said, his voice almost gravelly, then tightened up when Glitch _did_.

For a while, there weren't any sounds but Match’s irregular breathing and the soft slurps as Hax and Glitch sucked him off. Leaper and Char eventually joined the huddle, Leaper latching onto his other nipple, at which Match gave a guttural shout, and Char lipping at Glitch’s neck as he watched over his shoulder. Hype was slowly jacking himself, and Uli and Juro had an intense conversation involving eyebrows before gravitating over next to Hype to wait their turns. Pitch was on the bunk beneath Sting’s.

And Sting, he was sitting on the shitty top bunk under the exchanger, his hands freezing into ice under the blow of cold air, slowly rocking up against the datapad in his lap.

“What's this for?” Glitch asked, pulling back. His voice was thick with arousal.

Match peered down between Hax’s and Leaper’s heads; Hax had moved up to Match’s neck, leaving his nipple swollen and shiny. There was a bite mark along the curve of his breast that made Sting’s jaw ache with want.

“Feels good if you finger it,” Match said.

What the _fuck_ was he talking about? Sting was dying with curiosity. He wasn't the only one craning for a look; Uli, Hype, and Juro were all leaning to the side.

“It's a hole, guys,” Match said at large. “I've got an extra hole between my legs, that's what he's talking about.”

“It's called a vagina,” Pitch said. Sting couldn't see him, but he sounded wrecked.

“Sure, whatever. It feels good if you finger it.”

“Like the prostate?”

“I guess. There's a spot that feels better someti—yeah! Like that! That feels good!”

Glitch shifted his weight, and Sting caught a glimpse of pink flesh before he resettled himself. Char had reached down and was jerking Glitch off; Sting felt it extremely unfair that he could see Glitch’s cock with no problems, but couldn't see Match’s _anything_. Well, he could see his breasts. And the nipples that his brothers had sucked into hard points. That was pretty good to look at. And the flexing of his abs—Sting had respect for a good pair of abs.

Match bowed in orgasm again, letting out a rough little grunt as he did. Glitch moaned. Sting’s cock twitched.

“Here, lay off,” Match said quietly to Hax and Leaper, prying them off his chest. “Too much.” They reclined beside him instead, their cocks hard against his hips as they watched—whatever Glitch was doing. Eating him out.

“He's so wet,” Char said breathlessly. “Come on, out, I want a turn.”

“Finish me off, first.”

Char dutifully picked up the pace, and in three, maybe four pumps, Glitch was making a mess of the barracks floor.

“My turn, my turn,” Char said, dragging his lax brother away from the hot seat. Glitch didn't go quickly, and before Char managed to maneuver himself into place, Sting caught a glimpse of Match’s sex.

Soft, pink folds, alien compared to the territory he was familiar with. Soft and pink, and wet with fluid; and there, partially hidden, the shadow of what had to be his hole. Sting’s mouth watered. Then Char was in the way, and Sting was left wondering how Match tasted. He caught Match’s eye again; he was watching Sting, an unreadable expression on his face. It didn't look nice. Sting looked away, ashamed.

He didn't have any right to this. He looked down at his specs manual, hating himself.

Except—it hadn't turned out _all_ bad, had it? If he hadn't stripped off Match’s armor, Match wouldn't have the entire squad panting between his legs. Not quite a win/win, but it was damn close. Why should Sting still be ashamed? Why did he have to be the bad guy? 

_Because it sure as hell wasn’t Match’s fault_ , he mentally scolded himself. _He didn't make you do what you did_.

This time, Match was making noises, high-pitched and fraught with pleasure; they weren't anything like the deep-voiced cries Sting knew. Sting looked back, unable to stop himself. Match had both his hands buried in Char’s hair, his head thrown back; Leaper and Hax were holding his thighs apart, and Char was steadily stripping him down to the studs. When his orgasm finally came, Match gave a moan that went straight to Sting’s cock. He set the datapad aside and squeezed himself through his blacks.

“Break time, guys,” Match said, pushing Char out with his feet and closing his legs. Sting could still see the swollen pink of his inner folds, even though he wasn't spread wide anymore. Match turned to Leaper and started jacking him off; Hax started humping against Match’s thigh.

Juro had gone to his knees in front of Hype, apparently too impatient to wait; Uli was lazily stroking himself to the scene on the bed. The fapping sound of skin-on-skin from below spoke pretty eloquently as to what Pitch was doing, and Char and Glitch had flopped out Glitch’s bunk, half-asleep.

Sting contemplated his own situation. Would Match like it if Sting pulled one out while watching him? He stared at his erection, throbbing and aching in his blacks, and came up empty.

“Sting,” Match said, his voice unmistakable.

Sting’s head jerked up, along with every other head in the barracks. It was the first time Match had addressed him directly since the incident. “Yeah?” he croaked.

“Come here.”

Sting stared at him, uncomprehending.

“I said, ‘Come here.’” Match’s expression was that same neutral, blank he'd worn each time he’d caught Sting watching. Sting glanced to Char.

“You heard the man,” Char said, his voice hard. _Hurt him and I gut you_ , he left unspoken.

Sting slowly pushed himself off the bunk and dropped to the floor, against his better instincts. Match had been sitting up; at this point, he stood. He walked over and stared Sting in the face. “If you say stop,” he said slowly, “I will stop.” And with that, he yanked apart the seals on Sting’s bodyglove, baring him to the warm air of the barracks. Goosebumps ran over Sting’s chest; the weight of his brothers’ attention was nerve-wracking. He wasn't sure where Match was going with this; was it a sex thing?

Match stripped the blacks off his legs, and Sting stepped out. He was the only fully-naked person in the room, next to Match. Normally, he wouldn't have cared. Nudity was a casual experience when everyone—almost everyone—around you had the same body. But lounging in the nude was never as charged as this.

“On the bunk,” Match said. “On your back.”

This definitely seemed like a precursor to sex. But Match had no reason to want anything to do with Sting, let alone get off with him. Sting did as he was told, unsure whether or not to be glad he was still hard.

In a flash, Match was on top of him, holding his wrists into the mattress by his head. “You do not touch me without my permission,” he said, glaring into Sting’s eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Sting whispered, half-cowed, half-turned on, aware of what he said only after he’d said it.

“I'm going to ride you, and then you're going to clean up your mess,” Match said.

Sting swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Match sank down until he was sitting on the shaft of Sting’s cock. Sting watched, hopelessly aroused, as wet heat parted around him, as his own cockhead peered out from between the parted folds. Then Match moved, and Sting’s eyes rolled back in his head.

This slippery elision was nothing like fucking a brother. He felt the ridge of Match’s pubic bone grind down against him; he felt the heat of his folds cover the head of his cock, and it was bliss. The closest thing he could compare it to was getting sucked off, and that was a far cry from this teasing rub.

He opened his eyes and stared at Match’s breasts, hanging low and heavy, so close to his mouth but out of his reach in more ways than one. Match noticed the direction of his gaze, and lowered himself until his breasts were brushing against Sting’s chest with each stroke, a blatant tease. His eyes were glittering and hard.

All at once Match pulled back, releasing Sting’s arms; he grabbed Sting’s cock, slick with his own juice, and raised it to point up between his legs. Sting’s breath caught.

“My pace, my rules,” Match said. Sting nodded in reply. Match lowered himself down.

Melting heat enveloped the head of his cock. Blissful, smothering warmth, tight and slick. It was completely different from a brother’s ass, but it was incredible, all the same. Match sank about halfway down Sting’s cock before something barred his way. Sting looked up and was momentarily blindsided by the image of his dick parting Match’s folds. It was a perfect angle—but he couldn't seem to go any deeper.

“That's it,” Match said. “It's not very deep.”

“We could use your ass?” Sting said, confused.

“This isn't about what's comfortable for you,” Match replied, and raised himself off of his cock before lowering back down. Words fled Sting’s mind.

He lost track of how long Match worked over him. He clutched the sheets by his head, straining to keep from fucking upwards; but when Match started squeezing around him, that was it, he was gone: coming into that tight heat with a gasp.

Match sat on his cock until Sting softened and flopped back out.

“Now clean up your mess,” Match said, and moved up to straddle his face. The sharp scent of his own come met Sting’s nose, underscored by something else, something softer, but no less musky. He stared, transfixed, at the sight of his own white smears leaking down Match’s thigh.

“Any time now.”

“Can I use my hands?” Sting asked tentatively.

Match considered him for a while. “Yeah,” he finally said, and Sting reached slowly up to part his folds for a better look.

There, his hole, easy to see: stretched and dripping their mingled come. Behind it, the pucker of Match’s ass; higher up, where his folds came together, there was a small, swollen-red nub. That had to be his dick. Or whatever it was actually called; his clump of erectile tissue that gave orgasms. It throbbed as he watched. Match hadn't come yet.

He dragged Match’s hips down to his face, starting first with his hole, licking up the dribbled smears like he was told, then delving deeper to seek out the rest of his load. He tasted himself, the same taste as his brothers, but he also tasted _Match_ , and like so many other things about Match, it was the same, but different. It was a lighter taste, less bitter. His fluids were thinner than Sting’s, and slipperier. He licked until he couldn't taste himself anymore, and and then he worked his way up to Match’s tiny little cock. Match was making soft, whimpering sounds and grinding down into his face; his fluid coated Sting’s chin, and Sting’s own cock was making an honest attempt to get hard again, twitching against his thigh. He groaned into Match’s body; that seemed the last straw, and Match came with a convulsive gasp, rocking against Sting’s face. Sting rode it out, his hands clenched into Match’s thighs. Force, it was better than he'd imagined. He lapped at Match’s folds and his hole and his cock, until Match shuddered and pulled off him. He leaned back over Sting’s chest, bracing himself up on his hands, panting.

“I’m sorry,” Sting blurted, the first thing that came to his mind. He’d said it before, but it seemed to matter more, now.

Match nodded, too tired for words. Eventually he mustered himself. “Your hair’s better like this.”

His meaning was inescapable. “It's a lot less work,” Sting finally said. He missed his fractals. Missed the looks shinies gave him when they saw them. But Match’s approval felt a lot better than that. It went deeper.

Match rolled off him and slapped his flank. “Off. I'm not ready to sleep with you yet.”

Sting did as he was told. _Yet_ was a very promising word.

**Author's Note:**

> For those curious, Match has androgen insensitivity syndrome (AIS), which means he has fully developed testes, but his body can't respond to the testosterone they produce. The default human body is female—if nothing is done to a fetus in-utero, it develops into a female phenotype. But if testosterone is added, usually due to the presence of a Y chromosome but not always, then the vestigial gonads descend to the testes, and the fetus develops along male lines. So since Match's endogenous testosterone can't bind to his androgen receptors, his gonads are in the same place as ovaries, and he looks phenotypically female.
> 
> Human cloning is a hot fucking mess, no joke. If we were being ~*realistic about cloning in the GFFA then the Fett clones would all look wildly different, but I've gotten attached to this army of millions of identical human men, so. Lemons, lemonade.


End file.
